


When you eliminate the impossible

by TooManyChoices



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Doctor Strange/Sherlock cross-over, First Kiss, First Time, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, So THAT'S where Sherlock was during his time away, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 14:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8375830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: On the eve of Marvel's Doctor Strange, I'm celebrating.Perhaps Sherlock didn't only take down Moriarty's network while he was away. Perhaps he came back, different.The world's only consulting Sorcerer SupremeNO SPOILERS FOR DOCTOR STRANGE*OK, that even sounds silly to me, but it has smut, so there's that.





	

John hated that he needed to do this.

It was bad enough that Sherlock had needed to take him in again, like a stray puppy, after Mary had been taken into custody; the baby that was never his had been fostered out to a better home than they’d ever been able to give her.

It was bad enough that Sherlock had killed a man to try and preserve whatever fucked up life John had been trying to build with an ex-assassin.

It was bad enough that it had all been done after that same ex-assassin had shot Sherlock in the chest.

It was bad enough that those things had all happened after he’d cluelessly made Sherlock watch and help him marry her, all the while not understanding that Sherlock had felt far more than he’d let on.

But this… this felt like the ultimate betrayal. Once again, searching Sherlock’s room for drugs because Mycroft, Mycroft, thinks that it might be a danger night, for some obscure reason.

Sherlock was down at Barts, but due back anytime, so John had been thorough but efficient in his search. The sock index had yielded nothing, and all the usual nooks and crannies were similarly empty. He’d just about decided there was nothing to find when a floorboard near the corner of the room gave an ominous creak under his foot, and his stomach plummeted with dread.

Kneeling, he poked at the spot, finding the gap between the planks and jamming his penknife into the crack to lever the wood away, expecting to see the hateful gleam of vial and syringe underneath.

When instead there was a flash of red fabric that he assumed it was simply a cloth Sherlock had wrapped his paraphernalia in, but that he realized was far more substantial as he hefted the bundle out onto the floor.

“Put that down, John. Very carefully,” Sherlock’s deep voice came from the doorway, threat evident in the tone.

John hadn’t heard the key in the lock, or even the tread on the stairs and he jerked in shock at the sudden noise as Sherlock repeated, very slowly, “Put.It.Down.”

John could have sworn he felt something in the bundle shift as he carefully lowered the luxurious fabric to the floor and turned on his knees to face the detective, “Sherlock, I —”

Sherlock didn’t let him finish. Instead, he walked into the room, brushed past John and leaned to lift the bundle lovingly, clutching it to his chest before pivoting and walking back through the door and down the hall.

By the time John had pushed himself back to his feet and followed the detective, Sherlock was ensconced in his chair; knees were drawn up to his chest and hands in thinking mode beneath his chin. The red fabric sat accusingly between them on the coffee table and for the first time, John saw how substantial it really was.

What he could see of the top surface was richly embroidered and of far weightier material than he’d first thought. It was about the size of Sherlock’s Belstaff when folded for travel and John wondered if it too was a coat, albeit a garishly coloured one.

He opened his mouth to apologise again, but Sherlock stilled him, raising a hand to halt his words before he could begin.

Lowering his hands, Sherlock unfurled himself from the chair and stood, the coffee table and wrapped bundle still between them. Looking down and frowning, Sherlock dragged a long, slow breath through his nose before looking up at John, eyes pale and piercing, “I suppose it’s time, after all.”

John only had time for the words, “Time for wha—” before Sherlock opened a beckoning hand toward the fabric and, impossibly, it unfurled to reach toward his hand allowing his fingers to close in the densely stitched edge.

John blinked, stared, and blinked again as Sherlock stood calmly, his hand still grasping the material, thumb stroking it like a long missed lover and smiling down at it.

“I don’t —”

“You don’t understand? Some things aren’t meant to be understood, John. Some things simply are,” and with the slightest of tugs, the remainder of the fabric seemed to billow and flow upward, uncurling, rising and circling Sherlock to finally drape across his shoulders and settle down the length of his back.

John stumbled backward into the kitchen, the rational part of his minds screaming at him that what he’d just seen in the quiet, domestic space of 221B simply wasn’t possible. Sherlock still stood unmoving in front of him, beautifully tailored suit and jacket, crisp black shirt, carefully tamed curls and… incongruously, like something out of Lord of the Rings, a dense vermillion coloured cape draped over his shoulders, gold clasps settled against either collarbone and a very high collar turned up almost to his ears.

“Sit down, John. Before you fall,” Sherlock took a single unthreatening step forward, hand upraised to point at the kitchen chair just to John’s right, and with shaking legs, John slumped more than sat in it.

“Give your brain time to adapt to what you’ve seen; you’ve had a bit of a shock.”

“A bit of a shock?” John felt a hysterical giggle trying to push its way up from deep within his chest, and he found he had neither the strength nor will to suppress it. It bubbled up, and once it started, he found he couldn’t seem to stop, leaning against the table as his eyes watered and blurred as Sherlock silently moved around the table to it the kettle on and took two mugs from the cupboard.

While he waited for the water to boil, Sherlock turned back and wordlessly regarded John gasping for breath as the laughter subsided, before pouring the water over the teabags and bringing both cups to the table, taking a seat on the opposite side.

“Better?” Sherlock asked carefully.

John nodded, eyes red, “Yeah. Perfectly fine now.”

“Sarcasm?”

“Sarcasm. Of course, I’m not fine! I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Begin with tea; tea always helps,” Sherlock nudged the cup closer and John enfolded it with both palms. Sherlock was right, the heat against his hands contributed to ground his whirling thoughts and in a very literal sense, gave him something normal to cling to.

“You have questions,” Sherlock murmured around the cup at his lips.

“A few, yeah. Just a few,” John mirrored the movement, lifting his mug.

“Yes, you saw exactly what you think you saw. No, it’s not done with mirrors, or wires or a trick. Yes, it moved on its own. Yes, it’s mine. No, you can’t try it on. Next?”

John paused and internalised what were the answers to his five leading questions, instead opting for, “you’ve been preparing for this conversation for a while?”

“Since I came back from my time away, yes.”

“And you brought that… that thing… back with you.”

Sherlock looked almost offended, “It’s not a thing, John. Well, yes… it’s a thing, obviously. But please don’t use that tone when talking about it.” Sherlock ran his hands over the material again, smoothing it with a gentle touch.

“It moved, Sherlock. It fucking moved, on its own,” John could hear his voice rising, and he clenched his fist, trying to calm himself.

“Yes, it did… it does. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid…”

“Of course you are,” Sherlock smiled gently,” your perception of reality has been rocked, and you’ve identified the source of the threat to your understanding of the world as this cloak. You’ve reacted exactly as I would expect you to, John. But I’m telling you; there.is.no.danger.here.”

John huffed out a long, slow breath and forced the tension from his shoulders. Whatever was going on, he needed to trust that if Sherlock said it was safe, then it was. After all, when the situation was dangerous, Sherlock never hesitated to highlight it, shortly before running toward it.

“Alright,” he said slowly, “What you’re saying is ‘stand down, Watson.’ Fine, I’ve stood down. Now explain… and I think you’d better use small words.”

Sherlock smiled, and something small and fearful that John hadn’t even noticed lifted from his face as his expression brightened, “Excellent, John. Now, I’m going to tell you a story. It’s going to be hard to believe in some spots which is why this,” and as he said the word, a corner of the cloak lifted and wrapped itself around Sherlock’s hand and arm, “will help convince you that what I’m telling you is the truth.”

“Something happened to me while I was away for two years,” he began hesitatingly, “at a point where I thought all hope was lost and was on the verge of death, I found myself in Nepal and in the care of some very gifted people. They healed me and showed me,” Sherlock sighed as if he’d missed something glaringly obvious, “that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

John’s brow furrowed, “But you’ve always said that.”

“Yes,” Sherlock stood suddenly, frustrated, “But I didn’t believe it. Or, if I did, I didn’t understand the possibilities inherent in the statement.”

John shook his head, “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock stopped his pacing and looked back at John, his expression softening, “No, I suppose you don’t. It took me a long time,” he returned to the table, “so long… I thought I’d never get back to you.”

“But you did,” John smiled back, “with a magic cloak, too.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock’s voice dropped, and John shivered at the edge of the dark promise it held, “I came back with so much more than a magic cloak.”

“Show me?”

Sherlock grinned, his face full of wicked delight, “Could be dangerous. Still want to see?”

John reached out to lay his hand on Sherlock’s where it was still wrapped in its cocoon of red cloth, “God, yes.”

*

  
Their world changed, and yet remained oddly the same. Sherlock told him he was the Sorcerer Supreme (a ridiculously indulgent title that didn’t surprise John in the slightest) and began wearing an odd eye-shaped pendant under his (still too tight) shirts, one he called the eye of asparagus, or Aspergillus or something like that.

Sherlock, against John’s better judgment, had the flamboyant red cloak cut up and sewn into the lining of his Belstaff coat. Something that, according to Sherlock, caused it to pout for over a week until Sherlock finally conceded to sleep in it for several nights. From that point, it wasn’t unusual for the already dramatic flapping of the coat to take on truly epic proportions and the collar was now almost permanently in the showing off up position.

From the point of view of Scotland Yard, nothing changed. Sherlock was very careful in ensuring they never caught a glimpse of what he could do.

And what he could do was incomprehensible. If John had called Sherlock amazing and brilliant before, words like unbelievable and astounding joined them in his repertoire. While Sherlock still considered his logical, deductive reasoning his greatest weapon, it was hard to look past the magical talent he could now bring to bear when the opportunity called for it.

On one particularly memorable night, John had missed his footing when running full speed down a set of stairs and had tripped on a loose nail, or his own feet and had only enough time to think, “I’m falling” before he was heading face first toward the concrete nearly a flight below. When he opened his eyes a heartbeat later, the gray floor was less than a centimeter in front of his nose, and he was suspended just above the rock hard floor.

When he turned to look over his shoulder, breathing hard, Sherlock was standing, arms outstretched and hands in an unusual arrangement, surrounded by arcane symbols and glowing light. The confidence in the gesture was completely at odds with the shocked, almost panicked look in his eyes as John slowly descended to lay gently on the floor. John had pushed himself to his feet, brushed off his jeans and with a nod of unspoken something, they’d both taken off after the suspect again.

Which left John with a slight problem, with the knowledge that Sherlock’s magic required the use of his hands; Graceful, mystical, complex gestures in which he wove and gestured in arcs and whorls, John couldn’t stop watching them. The movements were the most intoxicating, addicting things John had ever seen, and John could barely even look at Sherlock’s hands, even at rest, without his vision beginning to white out around the edges as blood rushed south to tighten at his groin.

Sherlock noticed, of course, he noticed, John thought. The most observant man on the planet was hardly going to miss the way John’s breath quickened, or the way he had to swallow away the saliva that pooled in his mouth. So the problem became, what to do about it. Ignoring it, wasn’t working. Like a rubber band that was given an extra couple of turns each day, the gradual escalation of tension was beyond painful, and no amount of furtive wanking was solving the problem.

He hit breaking point quite suddenly one unremarkable evening in 221B, triggered by nothing more than Sherlock reaching for his coffee without looking, misjudging the distance, and knocking it off the edge of the desk. Like lightning, he reached, grabbed, and juggled the mug, finally managing to hook a long, agile finger through the handle, stilling its decent before it hit the floor.

Hearing the stuttered noise, Sherlock carefully placed his mug safely back on the desk and turned toward where John sat in his chair, mouth open and no doubt naked lust on every feature.

“John?”

John licked his lips, swallowed and closed his mouth, and then, for good measure, his eyes, not wanting to see Sherlock’s rejection any sooner than absolutely necessary.

“John?” The voice came from much closer, and he hesitantly opened his eyes to find Sherlock standing in front of him, “Are we going to talk about this?”

“Do we have to?”

“No,” Sherlock took a step back and settled into his chair, “No, we can continue as we are. You can continue to cling desperately to the hope that masturbation will address this issue.”

“And my alternative is the married to my work speech? No thanks” John tried to ignore the way Sherlock had said masturbate.

Sherlock huffed, “That was four years ago. For God’s sake, John, why on earth would you give that more weight that everything that’s happened since then.”

It was a good point, John thought, and yet he still doubted, “You’ve never said —”

“I’ve done nothing but say.” Sherlock leaned forward, his fascinating hands beginning to wave in frustration, “You want examples? Shall I start at the beginning?” He stood and began to pace, “Christmas, that first year? I loathe Christmas; you know that. But you wanted friends around, so we had your friends around.”

He turned back before shaking his head at John’s skeptical look, “More? You want more, alright. Baskerville —”

“Baskerville? You drugged me,” John laughed bitterly.

“Well, yes,” Sherlock paused and then forged on, “but before that, I told you… I told you that you were my only friend. Surely you understood… surely?”

“Understood what, Sherlock?” Hope curled deep in John’s chest, clinging and squeezing.

But Sherlock pushed ahead, “And then, Moriarty… I know you don’t accept that what I did, but you must know why I did it?” He turned to stare at John, hands beseeching and the volume of his voice rising, “you MUST.”

“But —”

“No, wait, I have more. I knew you hadn’t forgiven me, would never forgive me, so I did what I could to make your marriage a success.” He was almost trembling with barely suppressed emotion now, “I gave you up!” He sat down hard in his chair, finally coming to the end of either his speech or his energy reserves before whispering, “It seems like all I’ve ever done is given you up.”

John looked over at where Sherlock had pressed his palms against his eyes, and wondered if he was horrified at his volume of disclosure, or fighting the beginnings of a truly well-deserved migraine.

“Sherlock…”

From behind his hands, Sherlock murmured, “So don’t say I never said anything, ever again.”

John came to kneel before Sherlock, gently pressing open his knees to shuffle closer, “I’ve been an idiot.”

Sherlock’s hands dropped away, “I’m sure you remember me saying that, at least,” his mouth tilted up in a careful smile.

“Once or twice, didn’t believe that either.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock’s smile widened further as John’s matched it.

“Come here,” John leaned forward and gathered Sherlock into his arms, crowding against him and slotting his chin over his shoulder to nestle chest-to-chest.

They stayed like that for a long time. Long enough that John’s knees began to complain and Sherlock, perceptive as ever, eased them forward on the chair, “Now, can we talk about this?”

John looked into his pale eyes, for the first time seeing all the hope and fear that Sherlock usually kept so tightly guarded, “I thought we just had.”

“I’ve made clear what I want, but I need to know where you stand,” Sherlock murmured.

“Haven’t you deduced it?”

“I want to hear it,” Sherlock flushed, pink rising high on his cheekbones, “I think I’ve proved beyond doubt that where this is concerned, I can’t be relied upon to get things right.”

“Fair enough,” John got up, wincing as his knees protested the hard floor and sat instead on the coffee table between their chairs, “In the interest of full disclosure, If I’d had the slightest idea you were interested, we’d have been having this conversation years ago.”

“John,” Sherlock began, “as I said —”

“No, wait. Not your fault, I get that. I think I was so busy trying to convince myself that I had no chance, that I refused to look. So… sorry for that.”

“Idiot, “Sherlock whispered fondly.

“Oi, trying here. You know I’m not good at this,” John took Sherlock’s hands in his, “So, yes. Missed it all, wanted you for ages,” he paused thoughtfully before nodding, “Yeah, ages.”

“So what’s changed?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“These,” John lifted Sherlock’s hands in his, turning them slowly in his, “I mean, they were always amazing; playing the violin, at your microscope, on a case. But now,” he stroked his thumbs over Sherlock’s palms and the detective shivered, “Jesus, now they’re incredible. What you can do, Sherlock,” John’s voice dropped to a hushed murmur.  
  
“So it’s the magic…?”

“Yes… no. Sorry, I’m not making myself clear,” he huffed in frustration at his inability to articulate what he meant, “It’s you, Sherlock, It’s always been you. I’ve just noticed it more recently, imagining those hands, those amazing, tactile, brilliant, agile hands, and imagining what they’d feel like on me. It’s not your hands; it’s the idea of what you… could do to me with them.”

Sherlock blinked, his eyes fluttering as he processed what John was saying, brow furrowed until finally, his gaze cleared, and he asked in a voice deep and sultry, “You want me to touch you?”

“God, yes,” John sucked in a shaky breath at the sound of the words in Sherlock’s mouth, “please.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock muttered, all but bundling John under his arm as he seemed to explode from his chair in the direction of his room.

They’d gotten as far as the kitchen before John had the presence of mind to reach out and snag the door jamb, stilling their headlong rush, “Wait, Sherlock, wait.”

Sherlock growled, actually growled, and the sound went straight to John’s groin, and yet he held firm to the frame, knuckles white, “What? What could possibly be important right now, John?”

“Lock the door,” John gestured from his stranglehold in Sherlock’s arms.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock grinned, releasing John to dart to the doors, the click of the lock satisfyingly decisive before Sherlock turned back to where John stood against the kitchen table. To the casual observer, John was calmly unbuttoning his shirt, but Sherlock noted the tremble in his fingers as he fumbled a button through the hole. Stepping close, Sherlock placed his hands on John’s hips, “John.”

By way of reply, John fisted his hands in Sherlock’s shirt and dragged his head down to press a bruising kiss to his lips. At Sherlock’s startled squeak, John smiled against his mouth and dived back in for a longer series of kisses, no less passionate, but slightly softer, tugging Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own to work at it as Sherlock’s hands fisted in the fabric at his waist.

“Bedroom, now,” John mumbled into his mouth, “or we’ll be finishing this here and I really don’t want our first time, after so bloody long, to be up against the kitchen counter.”

Sherlock merely grunted, and tugged John toward his bedroom, refusing to relinquish his hold, and backing them down the corridor and through the doorway, sprawling them both onto the bed when the backs of his knees hit the side.

“Impatient?” John chuckled.

“Years,” Sherlock worked the last of John’s buttons undone and pushed his shirt off his shoulders, “years!”

“Yes, alright,” John leaned back, tugging Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers as he felt long fingers tugging at his belt, “so you’re saying I don’t need to take my time seducing you?”

Sherlock dispensed with John’s belt and began on the button on his jeans without pausing, “Naked, John, is what I want. As soon as possible.”

John laughed and wondered why he’d imagined this, and he had imagined this, any other way. Sherlock was the same focused, demanding tit that he always was and John realised he was delighted at the revelation. John threw caution to the wind and pushed Sherlock’s shirt up his chest, his mouth descending to suck at a dusky nipple, revealed on Sherlock’s pale chest.

A garbled noise escaped from Sherlock that may have been John’s name and the detective’s hands briefly fell away from his diligent work to rid John of his jeans in favour of clutching at the bed sheets, his back arching off the bed. John smiled and tongued at the pebbled flesh as Sherlock shivered and writhed beneath him.

“Sorry?” John pulled his head away for a moment, looking up wickedly at Sherlock’s face, “What were you saying?”

Sherlock panted, and John was sure the look he was given was supposed to be stern, but came across more as desperate, “You’re a very bad man, John Watson.”

John chuckled, “Oh, you have no idea,” his tongue appeared briefly, swiping the middle of his bottom lip and Sherlock groaned, “let’s get rid of the rest of these clothes, yeah?”

Barely a minute of scrabbling later, and they tumbled back onto Sherlock’s bed, skin-to-skin. There was a moment when the reality of the situation seemed to simultaneously hit home to them both, and they stilled, staring into each others faces, breathing hard but searching each other for some sign that this was real until Sherlock lay a palm against John’s cheek and without a word, John took it and kissed the palm, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock rolled them over, pressing John’s shorter body beneath him and proceeded to map every inch of his skin, worshiping with eyes, and tongue, and fingers, methodically shifting down the bed and devouring each new area as John mumbled, and cursed and tried to tug Sherlock back up where he could get at him. But Sherlock wouldn’t be deterred, treating John with every bit as much focus as a crime scene, and all John could do was submit to the onslaught. When Sherlock finally took John in his mouth, it was all John could do not to scream with the sheer joy at the feeling, fisting his hands in Sherlock’s curls as Sherlock bobbed, and sucked and rolled his tongue over the sensitive head. He could feel Sherlock hands, those beautiful, glorious, magical hands, pressing his hips down onto the bed so that, even in this, John was completely at the mercy of Sherlock’s ministrations.

In the end, he did scream. It was inevitable, he supposed. The pleasure rushed up and over him, swamping him like a tiny boat in a storm, and he heard himself crying out Sherlock’s name, voice hoarse and ragged and through it all, Sherlock held him, in his hands, in his mouth, and in his power. When John came back to himself, Sherlock had crawled back up his body and was sprawled on his chest, grinning at him like an enormous erotic cat and John kissed him, tasting himself on his tongue, and wasn’t that the sexiest fucking thing ever?

“I want to fuck you,” Sherlock murmured, and John shuddered at the naked lust in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah I want that. Christ, yes,” John whispered against his mouth, “I might need a moment to, you know, recover.”

Leaning close to John’s ear, “Sorcerer Supreme,” as all John heard before Sherlock was casually gesturing and arcane symbols burst to life at his fingertips, weaving around John and noticeably clustering around his groin. With a gasp of disbelief, John was again erect, the satiation still warm in his muscles, but his arousal back at his peak.

“Oh my God,” John’s hips arched off the bed, already seeking friction against his cock, “that can’t be a proper use of your powers.”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock nuzzled at John’s neck, “they’re my powers, and I’ll use them as I see fit.”

“How often can you do that?” John asked, taking Sherlock’s cock in hand and beginning to stroke.

“As often…God, yes… as often as we want,” Sherlock reached blindly behind himself to fumble in the side table for a condom and lube.

“Anything else I should be aware of,” John drew Sherlock toward him, his hand settling in dark curls to tug him down for a long, filthy kiss.

“Oh, I should think a few things should… come up as we go along,” and with a deep chuckle at his bad pun, Sherlock reached for John.

*

John awoke the following morning pleasantly achy and unpleasantly warm. As expected, Sherlock was nestled against him, exactly where he’d been when they finally succumb to exhaustion. What John didn’t expect was for the two of them to be wrapped in Sherlock’s Belstaff, sides tucked securely around them both and encased like a red lined woolen sausage.

“Sherlock…” he nudged the sleeping man as best he could with both arms trapped, and Sherlock stirred, eyes opening and head lifting from its pillow of John’s chest.

“Mmmmm,” The contented noise ceased when he realised their predicament. He gave a huff, “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Not your doing?” John tucked his chin down so he could see Sherlock’s face.

“No, it’s…” Sherlock rolled his shoulders, gaining a few precious inches, “Damn it, I know you think you’re helping…” he muttered.

John began to giggle, which quickly devolved into laughs that shook them both as Sherlock continued to try and get an arm free and the coat, with its mystical cloak as lining, tugged them back together.

“John, I’m trying to… Oh, to hell with it,” Sherlock slumped against John in defeat, “Alright, we’ll stay here, alright?”

The tension in the fabric seemed to relax as John chuckled, grinning at Sherlock’s furious scowl, “It appears pleased?”

Sherlock settled back in his original position, ear against John’s chest as if listening to his heartbeat, “I would think so, it’s been dropping hints for months.”

“I’m glad it approves.”

“You might change your mind when it starts insisting on joining in.”

“It wouldn’t,” John gasped, “would it?”

“How do you feel dressing up during sex, John?” Sherlock chuckled.

“Am I likely to have a choice?”

“No. Apparently not.”


End file.
